Sandy Scarboro

Thursday

Feb 27, 2014 at 12:01 AMFeb 27, 2014 at 3:47 PM

D-Day in the ICU

"Is it raining?" my father asks me."

"Yes, Daddy, there's a storm." I tell him.

I've been sitting beside my father's hospital bed since early this morning. I can now see the darkness creeping through the window of his room in ICU. His sleep is as turbulent as the weather outside. Tropical Storm Andrea arrived earlier in the day and is now creating chaos, similar to the whirlwind my father has been experiencing since his recent pancreatic cancer diagnosis.

"What day did you say it is?" he asks for the third time.

"It's June 6, 2013. It's a Thursday," I say.

"June 6," he repeats. "You know they had to change the date of the invasion a couple of times because it was raining then, too," Daddy says.

"Yes, I remember. You've told me that before," I say.

"Sweetie, I'm still cold. Could you get me another blanket?" he asks.

Carefully navigating around wires and machines, I walk over to the small closet. I pull a thick blanket from the top shelf and cover him from head to toe. I smile, thinking of the nights he used to tuck me in. I reach over and straighten his pillow and realize that he's already asleep again.

He has drifted in and out of sleep all day. Each awakening is the same. He asks about the date, which seems to rouse memories of when he was 19 and of the part he played in World War II.

My father, Lee Alvis, is a loving, hard-working man of small stature with a huge personality. His faith in God and a remarkable work ethic have carried him through the Great Depression and three wars. Even at 92, he has been healthy and active until being attacked by cancer.

As I sit beside him, holding his hand, I remember when I was younger. I loved to sit with him in the kitchen and listen to story after story while he cooked. He could always remember in such great detail, growing up in a small South Carolina town. He would put his words together with such gusto and enthusiasm that I was compelled to listen. He would usually spin the story so that it had a funny or surprise ending - my own little O. Henry just a cookin' and tellin' stories.

He had completed basic training in Miami at the Bancroft Hotel that had been turned into a makeshift barracks at the frenzied beginning of the war. He remembered being there with Clark Gable and Roy Rogers - just two other soldiers doing their part in the war effort. Next stop for my father was Hammonds, La., where he trained with the Army Air Corps to become a firefighter.

With his training completed, he was sent to England in preparation for D-Day. The 14-day trip was arduous as food was scarce and tensions were high. Many soldiers became seasick and passed their ration cards to Daddy. So Daddy, with his iron stomach, feasted his way across the Atlantic.

Later, during the Blitzkreig, he told me how the German drones would fly over, run out of gas, and then fall, decimating London. He said he always planned ahead and had a place ready to dive into when the next attack would happen. He often spoke about the graciousness and gratitude of the British people.

"If they saw you walking down the street in your American uniform," he said, "they would rush over to invite you to their home for dinner."

Again, Daddy ate well.

From his time in Korea, he had many memories of the Korean people. He was stationed at Fort Casey and could see the DMZ from the lookout tower. He enjoyed spending time with the Koreans who were working with the American soldiers. He admired the way Koreans caught fish in the same pot they'd use to cook it in. He recalled that they were excellent mechanics and often helped repair the Jeeps. He marveled at how the women would bring their laundry to the stream and beat it clean on the rocks, and he laughed when he told me how the Koreans would suck out the insides of the eggs in the mess hall and leave the empty shells for a frustrated cook to find later.

Vietnam seemed to have generated the least number of anecdotes. He once showed us slides of how he and one of his friends would visit the orphanages and bring the kids candy. When the candy was gone, the kids all clamored to sit on the GIs' laps because they were desperate to be held.

Snipers were everywhere in Vietnam. The Viet Cong would place boards on top of barbed wire that was on the ground then lithely sneak into camp and begin firing. Daddy told me about the time he walked out of his barracks on his way to morning chow. As he stepped into the sunlit day, he felt an excruciating pain radiating through his side. He crumbled to the ground in immense pain, thinking he'd been shot. The medics quickly rushed him to the nearby hospital tent so they could remove the bullet. No bullet was found; he did have a pretty severe cluster of kidney stones, though.

The nurse opens the door, flooding the room with light.

"I'm here to check your vitals," she says.

Daddy's eyes open and he manages a smile.

"What day is it?" he asks her.

"Why, Mr. Alvis, it's Thursday. I believe it's June 6," she says.

He nods and looks out the window at the brewing storm.

Despite his many military travels, tonight his mind is stalled in an English airfield in 1941. He seems compelled to share the thoughts that keep charging through his mind. His job in England was to put out the fires of the burning planes returning from their mission in France. The planes had been pounded by storms of bullets and many barely made it back over the English Channel. The bullets had destroyed their landing gear and the wheels wouldn't come down. The planes crashed one after another. Daddy was supposed to get to the burning planes as quickly as he could in order to extinguish the fires. He pulled the injured and the dying from the infernos, and over and over again, he fought to save these young men. He said he tried; he really tried to save everyone.

Some of the soldiers who survived told him of the horrors they'd seen in Normandy. American soldiers had bravely parachuted into occupied France, and many were caught and hung helplessly in the trees. As they hung there, unable to defend themselves, the German soldiers shot them.

The nurse gives Daddy some medicine that she says will help him sleep, and then she leaves the room. I reposition his pillow and pull the blankets over his shoulders. I doubt Daddy will sleep for long; he continues to wrestle with the war. He knows he was one of the lucky ones. He'd come home from each war without serious injuries. He'd married, had children, and enjoyed a long military career. He retired as a master sergeant, but, of course, he'd kept working. That's what he'd learned during the Great Depression. Then, at age 70, he started his favorite job. He became a Walmart greeter. His gregarious nature and ready smile made him the perfect candidate for the job.

The sound of the rain has become more intense, and I close the curtains to shield him from the flashes of lightning.

"Daddy," I say, "you know that I love you."

"Yes," he says. "I love you, too."

I look at his worry-worn face. Even now, all these years later, part of him is still a soldier, still experiencing the war, still grieving for all those boys lost years ago. I lean over, kiss his cheek, and take his hand. I know that Daddy will remain a soldier until the very end.

Sandy Scarboro is the proud daughter of retired Master Sgt. Lee Alvis Scarboro and a 1988 graduate of Methodist College. She taught middle school in North Carolina for 23 years and enjoys spending time with her two children. She has written and is currently editing her young adult novel. Scarboro has contributed to The Fayetteville Observer column "Tips for Parents."

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